


I get by with a little help from my friends

by fennishjournal (Shimi), LostGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Challenge Response, Collaboration, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, Siblings, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostGirl/pseuds/LostGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five lessons John learned from his friends that turned out to be really essential for his relationship with Sherlock.</p><p>Written for the <a href="http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/697211.html">friendship/companionship challenge</a> in <a href="http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com.html">Watson's Woes</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drabble 1

**Author's Note:**

> The drabbles were written alternately by fennishjournal and LostGirl and take place before the beginning of the show (odd numbers) and post-Reichenbach (even numbers).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: Friends protect you
> 
> John and Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by fennishjournal  
> Prompt: Embrace

John jerks up in his bed, heart hammering. Light is shining under his bedroom door, turning his bedroom into a landscape of greys and shadows. His breathing, fast and shallow, seems unnaturally loud for a moment and then he hears a second loud crash from downstairs and his mother's voice angry and scared at the same time:

 

“Stop it, stop it, Hamish!”

 

There is another loud crash and a low sound that he knows is his mother crying. John Watson, 8 years old (9 next month) is an expert at decoding these nightly noises. He can pull the duvet over his head and curl up into a tight little ball that hears nothing, sees nothing but that doesn't help because he knows anyway.

 

He knows that his father was laid off (again), that he went down to the pub and drank away more money than his mother thinks they can afford (again). He knows that his mother confronted his father as soon as he stepped into the kitchen and he knows that by now their row has reached the stage where his father is throwing things and his mother is trying to shield her face with her arms, crying with fury and fear.

 

Trembling, he tries to banish the mental images the noises invariable conjure up. He stuffs his fingers in his ears and concentrates hard on reciting the multiplication table, trying to block out any sound from downstairs. He has just reached 8x8 = 64 and because it reminds him of the Beatles he is humming along a little under his breath even though Miss Matthews says he couldn't hit a note if his life depended on it, when his bedroom door creaks open.

 

He takes his fingers out of his ears and breathes out a small sigh of relief as Harry lifts his duvet and slides into bed with him. John doesn't say a word but he finds her hand and holds on tightly as the screaming downstairs starts up again. There is another loud crash and he jumps a little while Harry goes perfectly, preternaturally still next to him. And then she rolls over and pulls John into her arms and he presses his face into the fabric of her nightgown, hiding it against her shoulder. She places a hand on the back of his head, making him feel small and save. They fall asleep like this, holding on to each other and it is only much later, when John is learning to shoot a gun and to protect himself and others that he realises that he made Harry feel safe, too, by needing her and letting her protect him.


	2. Drabble 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: Friends protect you
> 
> John and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by LostGirl  
> Prompt: Alone

John puttered about in the kitchen, sneaking glances into the lounge when he thought Sherlock wouldn't notice. A thought with serious flaws since even though Sherlock had his back to him--playing his violin at the window, and wasn't that a sight John had missed in the year Sherlock had been away--he still seemed to know whenever John looked.

 

"You act as if I'll disappear if you turn away for five minutes."

 

"You never know," John muttered, moving back into the kitchen with the bowl he'd been drying. He stopped halfway to the sink, his gaze on the Erlenmeyer flasks lined up in a row on the kitchen table. He really shouldn't have missed that, but he had. He'd missed all the clutter and chaos that orbited Sherlock, and having him back was... Well, it was the miracle he'd asked for, but now... Now he couldn't help but see the new scars--one the back of Sherlock's right hand, the other just above his left eyebrow. Now he couldn't stop seeing the hesitance in Sherlock's eyes, the way he'd start to say something and stop himself. It wasn't right. Whatever had happened to make Sherlock hesitant, to give him new scars, while John wasn't there... It just wasn't right.

 

John straightened the flasks – _What is in these, anyway? Jesus, I hope that's not urine_ _–_ resisting the urge to look into the lounge again. He could hear the damn violin. He _knew_ Sherlock was still there.

 

When there was nothing left for him to do, or even pretend to do, John hesitated at the foot of the stairs up to his bedroom. But he couldn't think of anything to say, and it was late. Upstairs, he changed into his pyjamas, listening to the strident tones of Sherlock's playing. It was comforting, actually. Then, just as John was drifting off, the playing stopped and John's eyes flicked open. Instantly awake. Gripped by an unreasonable fear that something was wrong.

 

He'd just moved to push back the blankets when his door creaked open. Sherlock stood in the doorway, pyjama-clad. Not at all hesitant, he strode into the room and stopped at the edge of the bed.

 

"Scoot over."

 

John's eyebrows tried for his hairline. "What?"

 

"I like the left side."

 

"I see." John tried to gather words to ask what the hell that had to do with anything, but Sherlock was quicker.

 

"You're never going to sleep if you're worried I'll disappear. I need you focused tomorrow. We have a case. Scoot over."

 

John opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Sherlock made an annoyed noise and climbed under the covers into what space there was, his back to John. John laid there stunned, staring at the back of Sherlock's head in the semi-dark.

 

"I would have pegged you for the type who sprawls in the middle of the bed." It wasn't what he should be saying. Was it? John just wasn't sure anymore.

 

"Strangely insightful. True. Totally irrelevant. Go to sleep."


	3. Drabble 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: You don't cockblock your friends
> 
> John and Tim (original character)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by fennishjournal  
> Prompt: Negotiate

Tim is finally, _finally_ getting somewhere with Heather – they're snogging on his bed and he has his hand up her jumper, fondling her breasts – when his idiot flatmate knocks.

“Tim? Tim, mate, you in there?”

John sounds congested and like he has forgotten how to breath through his nose. Normally Tim would feel sympathetic but right now he just gives a frustrated growl and then decides to ignore John. Heather hasn't even noticed, the way she's still eating his face and he concentrates to how good her breasts feel as he squeezes them lightly. She moans against his mouth which is stupidly hot and - 

Suddenly there's a draft from the doorway and when he looks up, there's John, mouth hanging open with surprise.

“Oi, John, anybody ever teach you to knock?”

He's embarrassed as well as frustrated now and one glance at Heather shows him that she has blushed bright red and is frantically tugging her jumper back down. There goes his afternoon shag. 

“Wow, I'm really sorry, Tim.” John's face is scarlet as well and he's holding both hands up in a placating gesture. “I was just going to ask whether you mind if I finish your tea. This cold is getting really bad.”

Tim manfully suppresses the urge to break John's already useless nose and just waves an annoyed hand at him.

“Yeah, sure, take it.”

“Ok.” And John disappears, the door falling closed behind him. 

 

The second time it happens, Heather is stretched out above him, lab book forgotten on the floor, and she's shoving a hand down his pants and, oh yes, wow, that feels brilliant and – 

There's a knock on the door. 

Heather hisses in annoyance but refuses to budge, kissing him hard. That's fine by Tim, he shoves his tongue into her mouth and it's slick and - 

Another knock. Oh, for fuck's sake!

“ _What?_ ” He yells out.

It's John, _again_ , and really, Tim is going to kill the annoying little tosser the next time he's not pinned under a seriously hot girl. 

“Um, Tim, I think my fever has spiked. Would you mind getting me some Aspirin? We seem to be out.”

He groans because it's Sunday and that means the only place he'll get any Aspirin right now is at Euston station.

“So get it yourself!” What is John, five?

“I would but I'm not feeling so great.” 

John actually is sounding pretty rough, all croaky and hoarse. If Tim listens closely, he thinks he can almost hear John's teeth chattering through the door.

“Oh, alright,” he grumbles, cursing his no doubt overdeveloped sense of altruism. “Just go back to bed, yeah? I'll go in a minute.” 

And when he's back he and John are going to have a very serious conversation about how not cockblocking your mates is really, really essential to surviving your time at uni without getting your teeth kicked in.


	4. Drabble 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: You don't cockblock your friends
> 
> John and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by LostGirl  
> Prompt: Accuse

John glared at Sherlock the entire ride home. He kept glaring as he threw his arm around Sherlock's stooped shoulders, letting Sherlock help him up the stairs. John's ankle wouldn't take his weight, and it was swelling.

 

"You get that what you did wasn't on, right?"

 

"You're being melodramatic," Sherlock replied, as John pulled away in the kitchen doorway. "If you hadn't thrown such a tantrum, your date wouldn't have minded."

 

John gaped, unable to reply. It took him so long to find words that Sherlock tilted his head, widening his eyes as John's mouth opened and closed. John threw up his arms and nearly overbalanced. He didn't argue as Sherlock helped him to one of the armchairs in the sitting room, but once settled he finally found the words.

 

"Friends don't cockblock one another, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock blinked down at him. "Cockblock?" He said it as if it tasted bad.

 

"It means—"

 

"I know what it means, John. I didn't… do that."

 

"You didn't—You showed up in the middle of our date! We were nearly in each other's laps!"

 

"Which really isn't appropriate in a public place." Sherlock turned and went back into the kitchen, heading for the fridge.

 

"Sherlock!" John felt an angry flush rising in his face. "This isn't a joke. You can't just show up on my dates and expect me to ask for another place setting!"

 

"There was a _case_ ," Sherlock said, each word clipped. "I didn't do it for _fun._ "

 

"Oh, tell me about this case!" John shouted. "You're not there now!" __No, you're in the kitchen with your head in the fridge.__

 

"You're injured, and it's partially my fault--"

 

"Partially?" John glared, though it did little good with Sherlock's back to him. His ankle began to ache, now that he was home and sitting. Clenching his jaw, John turned enough to grab his laptop off the desk, ignoring Sherlock, who wandered back into the sitting room.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I didn't… I hadn't intended to… 'cockblock' you."

 

That was all the apology he'd get, but… John wanted more. He looked up to find Sherlock holding a pillow and a ziplock full of ice. John blinked when Sherlock reached down and lifted his ankle—gently—onto the opposite armchair, tucking the pillow under it and laying the ice on top. His anger drained away as he stared at Sherlock's impassive profile.

 

"Why show up on my dates? This isn't the first time. I don't get it."

 

Sherlock shrugged. "I was bored. You weren't here."

 

"There was nothing else to do?"

 

"Bored." Sherlock actually looked uncomfortable.

 

"Right." He sighed. "Next time, can you text? I'll do my best to answer, but… Don't just show up, okay?"

 

"I doubt your date will approve." Sherlock wouldn't meet his gaze.

 

"I'll explain it's that or a threesome." It was a joke, but there was a glint in Sherlock's eyes when he looked up.

 

"Good. Now, I've got to get back to my experiment."


	5. Drabble 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: Sometimes you have to save your friends from themselves
> 
> John and Bill Murray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by fennishjournal  
> Prompt: Sick

It's hot and John is feeling unbearably queasy and a little seasick whenever he moves, but it's his first week in Kandahar and he'll be damned if he starts out by being an enormous whimp. He drinks two cups of coffee instead of eating breakfast and makes his way over to the field hospital for his shift.

By noon, John has thrown up twice and is so exhausted that his hands are shaking. When Bill Murray comes in for the afternoon shift he takes one look at John and then he makes him sit down, putting a cool, large hand against John's forehead. It feels wonderful even though John is shivering with an aching chill right now, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

Bill chuckles. “You've got yourself a nasty case of Delhi belly there, mate.”

John frowns. “Delhi belly?”

“Yeah, happens to all the new guys. Come on, I've got a cot over there with your name on it.” Bill is tugging at John's arm, trying to to pull him up from his desk chair. John stubbornly stays where he is. 

“I can't, Bill, I've still got two hours left of my shift and - ”

“And you really fancy giving whatever you've got to all the other poor bastards in here? I don't think so. Come on now, upsy-daisy!”

In the end Bill simply pulls John's arm over his shoulder and half-carries, half-drags him to one of the empty beds. John can't even remember lying down, his eyes falling closed before his head ever hits the pillow.

The next three days are horrible; it's like the worst stomach bug John has ever had in his life and he can't keep down more than half a cup of weak tea at a time. He is alternately hot as a furnace and shaking with cold and the desert heat makes all of it worse. The only good thing he remembers from those awful days is Bill's patient hands as he helps John up or back into bed and how he gives him a sponge bath on one memorable and truly mortifying occasion. Being on the other end of the needle, as they say, is no fun at all.

 

But John is back on his feet within the week and the next time he sees Bill at the hospital he squeezes the man's shoulder gratefully.

“Thanks, Bill, you're one hell of a nurse!”

Bill just waves him off.

“Yeah, well, out here you sometimes have to save your friends from themselves. Just return the favour next time I get shot in the leg, yeah?” He pats his right hip, where an old bullet wound occasionally makes him stiff, and John grins.

“It's a deal.”

 

Years later it is Bill who saves John when he gets shot in the shoulder and John never, ever forgets it.


	6. Drabble 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: Sometimes you have to save your friends from themselves
> 
> John and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by LostGirl  
> Prompt: Guilty

John glanced over to where Sherlock was sprawled on the other side of the cab. His face was turned away, which meant he was thinking, or sulking, or watching John in the reflection of the window. One way or another, he wasn't talking, but John thought he wanted to.

He couldn't say exactly why. Maybe his time living with Sherlock had attuned John to his moods, or maybe he was projecting, because he wasn't actually happy with the silence. Sherlock had been out of sorts for three days, and John wasn't sure why. When Sherlock was bored, he just said so—loudly and often—and when he was thinking, he didn't hesitate to tell John to buzz off. This quiet was different, a sulk of some kind John hadn't seen from Sherlock before. Whatever was bothering Sherlock, it had made him quiet and tractable.

It was freaking John right the hell out. Had he done something? The thought made his gut strangely tight. 

He kept his mouth shut until they'd reached Baker St., but once there John couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"All right, what is it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, come off it! You've been in a sulk for days. You eat whatever I put in front of you, you go to bed at a reasonable hour, you haven't tortured your violin once, and you didn't even insult Anderson when he mistook a toeprint for a fingerprint!"

Sherlock shrugged and collapsed on the sofa. "Isn't that what you want?"

That stopped John cold, his forehead furrowing as he ran through the words again to make sure he'd got them right.

"What _I_ want?"

"You. Everyone. Sherlock, be civil. Sherlock, eat something. Sherlock, don't play your violin in the wee hours." He said the last in a high-pitched imitation of Mrs. Hudson.

"Since when do you listen to all that?" John sat on the coffee table as he tried to puzzle out this new and disturbing mood. He didn't like 'acceptable' Sherlock.

"Days, apparently."

John blinked, and then it came to him. Sherlock was feeling sorry for himself. Moping. Was Sherlock bothered by the idea that people didn't like who he was?

No, John thought. _He said 'what you want.' Does he care what I think?_ John felt oddly touched, but luckily he knew just how to handle the situation. "Well stop it, you great git. You're driving me up the bloody wall!"

Sherlock looked taken aback. Not the response he was expecting, then. "Pardon?"

"Stop sulking and start ignoring. I expect you to be refusing dinner in half an hour."

Sherlock blinked. "You want… What?"

"Assuming the Thai place can get it here that quickly. I want to see if they'll send the same delivery girl. She thinks I’m a saint for putting up with you, so be extra obnoxious. "

A grin spread over Sherlock's face. "I have a sulfur experiment…"

John gave his best long-suffering sigh. "Fine. I'll set up the fan to air the place out afterward."


	7. Drabble 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: Friends tolerate your eccentricities
> 
> John and Mike Stamford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by fennishjournal  
> Prompt: Support

John has been back for two months now and living outside the hospital for two weeks. In many ways he feels like he is back home, here in the city whose noise and bustle has always been obscurely calming to him. In other ways he feels like he might never return to civilian life at all. 

 

What John can do:

  * Chase after criminals with his new flatmate.
  * Shoot people in cold blood.
  * Live with noxious chemicals and severed heads in his kitchen.
  * Ignore violin music at 3 AM.
  * Work at the surgery.



 

What John can't do:

  * Talk to Harry. 
  * See children playing with grenade-sized balls in the park without freaking out. 
  * Return Mike Stamford's calls. 
  * Trust his therapist. 
  * Go more than a week without waking up whimpering from a nightmare.



 

It is Tuesday afternoon and he has finally given in to the prodding of his conscience and called Mike. They are walking along the Thames, the charmingly named dome of The Testicle to their right, trying to make conversation. It is something John had never thought of as difficult, having always been good at small talk. Nowadays, however, it seems like there are only two topics readily available to his brain: Sherlock and the war and he really, really doesn't want to talk about the war.

 

The third time he starts a sentence with the words “You know, Sherlock says....” he snaps his jaw shut viciously and looks out over the grey surface of the river.

 

Mike next to him is silent for a moment and then he clears his throat and starts in on some inane story about undergrads stealing body parts from the morgue. John only listens with half a brain, silently berating himself for being a social fuck-up, but slowly he starts to relax under the soothing noise of Mike's prattle.

 

They keep walking and at the end of the afternoon John finds himself in a pub, a cold glass of cider in his hand, animatedly debating Mike on whether football has sold out as a sport. It feels normal and effortless and when Mike leaves him alone for a moment to get the next round, his broad back a patient point of stillness in the crush at the bar, John thinks that he has never given Stamford enough credit.


	8. Drabble 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: Friends tolerate your eccentricities
> 
> John and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by LostGirl  
> Prompt: Destroy

Sherlock huffed for the third time in the last hour, but John didn't so much as twitch a glance in his direction. Narrowing his eyes at his prey, Sherlock gave the best sigh he could muster. Still nothing. He knew John was aware of him, so he must still be angry about his mug. The look on John's face when he'd seen it smashed on the table, the regimental insignia cracked in half was… Sherlock didn't like to remember it, but for some reason couldn't delete it.

Radical action would have to be taken.

"I… I'm sorry," he finally choked out, the words sounding grudging at best.

John's eyes flicked to him, wide. "What?"

Sherlock glared. "Do I have to say it again?"

John sighed, tossing aside his paper. "You know that mug… Okay, it wasn't anything big, but it was… It was _mine_ , a gift when I… came home, and you smashed it with a hammer!"

"It was for a—" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut on the words when John glared. "Fine," he said, flinging himself up and into a seated position. He leaned his elbows on his knees, looking directly at John. "I am… sorry." The word sounded less as if it had been dragged from his throat this time.

John sighed, but nodded. "Yeah. I know. It's fine."

"It is?" Sherlock couldn't quite believe he'd be left off the hook that easy. Mycroft usually made him perform like a dancing monkey before granting forgiveness. Of course, that was the reason he'd stopped appologizing to Mycroft.

"Yeah, of course. You appologized. That was… I know that's not easy for you. And… Well, I know you didn't do it because you're a bastard. Just… don't go anywhere near my laptop."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You… forgive me?"

John's lips twitched, but he didn't actually smile. "Yes! Can we just move on?"

"Of course," Sherlock said and then, because he felt something more was required of him. "You can have mine."

John looked confused. "Yours?"

"Yes. The one I keep in my bedroom."

John blinked. "Isn't that the mug you used to prove Yates killed his wife?"

"Yes. I've cleaned it. There should be no danger in using it."

"Uh… Right," John said. "I think I'll just buy a new one."

"Oh." Sherlock wasn't sure why he felt disappointed. It was a gesture, the least John could do was accept it.

Several moments passed in silence, John having gone back to his paper. Then he laid it aside, turning a strange look on Sherlock. "Wait. That was you genuinely trying to be nice, wasn't it?" John grimaced, looking pained.

Sherlock had to consider that for a moment. He wouldn't have put it in those terms, exactly. But before he could come up with a response, John said, "That was really rude. I'm sorry. Thanks for mug, Sherlock."

Sherlock went back to his thinking with a smile he couldn't quite suppress. John would be drinking out of his mug.


	9. Drabble 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: I don't have to take any shit from you just because I'm your friend
> 
> John and Mrs. Hudson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by fennishjournal  
> Prompt: Emotion

When Jane Hudson steps into her kitchen, still full of the beauty of the evening, she just wants to make herself a nice, calming cup of tea after the excitement of her date. As a result, she almost has a heart attack when she realises John Watson is waiting for her in the dark.

“For heaven's sake, John, you almost scared me to death!” 

He jumps as well and she shakes her head at the absurdity of the situation. Waiting up for her in the dark, like her mother used to when she was all of 16.

She fills the kettle and takes out two cups instead of one.

“Well, I'm waiting. What on earth are you doing in my kitchen in the middle of the night?”

John looks rather sheepish but determined and after a moment he screws up his courage and begins telling her how worried he is about what he calls her “affair” with Douglas. How there're plenty of men out there who will fake attraction in order to hurt her. At first she's amused, but the longer he continues the angrier she becomes.

She waits until he has trailed off uncertainly after the unnecessary reminder that Douglas is ten years younger than her, and then she slams his tea down in front of him, narrowing her eyes dangerously.

“Now, you listen to me, John Watson! What I do with my romantic life is NONE of your damn business. I will have you know that there are plenty of men out there who have absolutely nothing against dating an experienced woman. Who, in fact, prefer it if their partner is able to show them a thing or two in - ”

John's hands abruptly fly up to his ears, his eyes screwed shut in horror.

“Please, Mrs. Hudson, no details.”

“Right then. You'll acknowledge that it is none of your concern whom I take to my bed and I'll spare your delicate sensibilities. Deal?”

He flinches a little at the implications but apparently she got her point across. 

They sit and drink tea in silence for a little and then she sighs, because, really, her boys are so obvious it's a little ridiculous.

“Now, why don't you tell me why you're _really_ down here? What has he done this time?” 

John looks embarrassed, as he always does when his crush on Sherlock comes up, but then he clears his throat and offers: “He tried to kiss me.”

Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Well, that's a nice surprise.”

He shakes his head unhappily. “His timing is awfully suspicious. We had an enormous fight after he scared off Celine and then he suddenly comes on to me.”

It's all beginning to make sense now. “You think he's pretending to make sure you don't move out?”

“Well, yes.”

“Oh, John.”


	10. Drabble 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson: I don't have to take any shit from you just because I'm your friend
> 
> John and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by LostGirl  
> Prompt: Wonder

John steeled himself and stepped into the sitting room, where he could hear the strains of one of Sherlock's more morose compositions.

"Sherlock," he said, "we have to talk."

"About the… kiss, or the fact that you ran out after it?" He didn't even stop playing.

"Yeah, all of that."

"I think it's all fairly self-explanatory. You can save the speech. If you're moving out, at least give me a little while to find a new flatmate." He kept his back to John, his posture stiff.

"Sherlock, look… It was just sudden and—"

"Sudden?" Sherlock whirled around then, the violin coming down from his neck and the bow whipping through the air as he gestured with it. "I tended your ankle, and appologized, and gave you my mug. I texted instead of popping in on your _dates_ —" he might as well have been talking about intestines, for all the disgust he managed to cram into the word "—I kept all my experiments on the designated shelves and… What exactly must I do so that your tiny little brain will take notice? Sit up and beg?"

John could feel the shock written large on his face. Even Sherlock seemed surprised by his outburst, because he looked away. After a heartbeat, he began to carefully store away his violin.

"Just give me a week or two to—"

"I'm not leaving, I don't think," John finally managed, taking a step closer to Sherlock. He didn't want to approach too quickly, there was something of the wild animal in Sherlock's body language. "I… I shouldn't have run off."

Sherlock froze for barely a second, and then gently shut the lid of his violin case. "By which you mean?"

"I… You tried to kiss me after we'd… fought, and I… I just need to know that it wasn't… a tactic?" John could hear the hurt in his own voice, feel it twisting his stomach tighter at the thought. If it was just some way of manipulating him… Well, if it was he might actually be moving. He wasn't sure he could stand the realisation that… that he'd wanted that kiss, that he'd… If Sherlock hadn't really meant it, he wasn't sure he could be around him and not… John found his hands were clenched at his sides.

Sherlock turned, tilting his head. "Have you really not noticed?" He sounded incredulous, yet John felt a weight lifting from his chest. Sherlock was honestly baffled, and that meant… It meant the kiss hadn't been a sham.

"I'm noticing now." They stared at one another for long heartbeats, and then John closed the distance. He hesitated just shy of Sherlock's parted lips. "I need to know you actual want this…"

Sherlock swallowed hard, his eyes flicking down to John's mouth. He was breathing harder, his pulse visible in his throat. "Oh, God, yes."

Neither of them said anything for a good while after that.


End file.
